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The bell rings. Glancing at the clock, I realize that my ride has arrived. Taking one last look at my reflection, I gather my courage and step outside.
"Miss Tatiana," the driver greets me, bowing slightly as he holds open the door to the luxurious Bentley.
"Thank you," I reply, my voice wavering only slightly as I slide into the plush leather seat.
As the car pulls away from my apartment, I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets blur by. My uneasiness heightens with each passing mile, my thoughts racing with endless possibilities. Who could have arranged such an extravagant affair? What do they want from me?
"Is everything all right, Miss Tatiana?" the driver asks, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.
"Y-yes, I'm fine," I stammer, forcing a smile onto my lips. "Just a bit nervous, that's all."
"Understandable," he says with a nod. "But I'm sure you'll be brilliant, as always. I watched your performance online and am a fan of your work."
"Thank you," I murmur, my heart swelling with gratitude for his kind words.
Throughout the journey, I try to focus on my breathing technique, doing a few warm-up exercises, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the evening ahead. This performance could make or break my career; either way, it would change my life forever.
As we approach the empty opera house, its imposing facade looms large against the darkening sky. The Bentley comes to a smooth stop, and I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm.
"Here we are, Miss Tatiana," the driver announces, opening the door for me. "Break a leg."
"Thank you," I reply, stepping out into the crisp Philadelphia air.
The moment I step into the grand foyer of the opera house, an eerie silence greets me. Every sound, from the click of my heels against the marble floor to the rustle of my gown, feels amplified in the emptiness.
"Tatiana!" Martin calls out, his voice echoing through the cavernous space as he comes rushing toward me. His eyes widen when he sees me, a mixture of awe and admiration washing over his face. "You look charming, my dear."
"Thank you, Martin," I reply, trying to control the nervous tremble in my voice. I can't help but feel self-conscious under his gaze, even though I know his compliments are genuine.
"Stanford, the chairman, should be here soon to discuss the details of your performance." He gestures toward the empty auditorium beyond the foyer, his voice low and hushed. "In the meantime, let's get you settled backstage."
We make our way through dimly lit corridors, not a person in sight. Most of the lights are switched off. Crystal chandeliers drizzle some light, and there are candles. Lots and lots of candles.
"Are you sure this is all right?" I ask Martin, my concern seeping into my words. "Performing for an anonymous audience in an empty opera house... It just seems so strange."
"Trust me, Tatiana," he reassures me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "This opportunity is too good to pass up. And besides" – he leans in closer, lowering his voice – "it's not every day someone offers you $100,000 to sing a few arias."
I nod, swallowing hard as I try to push away any lingering doubts. This is what I've been working toward my whole life—the chance to earn a living through my passion.
"Here we are," Martin announces as we enter the backstage area. He helps me settle into a plush chair near the stage entrance, fussing over me like a mother hen. "Do you need anything before we begin?"
"No, I should be fine," I answer, smoothing out the folds of my gown and doing a few voice exercises to steady myself.
"Good." He gives me an encouraging smile, his eyes filled with pride. "Just remember – you were born to do this."
Just as I'm about to ask Martin who our mysterious audience is, a distinguished man with salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored suit approaches us. His presence exudes power and authority.
"Miss Amante," he extends his hand, "I am Stanford, the chairman of the Met Philadelphia."
"An honor to meet you, sir," I say, shaking his hand firmly. He has a strong grip, but it's warm and friendly.
"Please, the pleasure is all mine," Stanford replies with a genuine smile. "I wanted to personally welcome you and let you know that this extraordinary request comes from a very special guest. Someone deeply impressed by your talent."
"Who is this guest?" I can't help but inquire, my curiosity piqued.
"Ah, well, they prefer to remain anonymous for now," Stanford says, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. "But rest assured, they are quite eager to hear your performance tonight."
"Thank you, Mr. Stanford," I reply, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves churning in my stomach. "I'll do my best to make it a memorable evening."
